


The Ocean and Truth

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wish I’d told my mother. About us.” John said. “I wanted to, you know, I just never knew how to start. My family was never good with . . . talking. And then she got sick . . .”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ocean and Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ watsons_woes JWP Prompt #7: Wrong! Have a character discover that he or she remembers a pivotal life event incorrectly. (You might have to squint to see the prompt in this one.)

It took John three weeks, more or less, to do all the official things that needed to be done. Harry was no help, but no hindrance either, so John had that to be grateful for. His sister, newly single and living alone in a furnished bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush, still claimed the lion’s share of his mother's furniture. He packed a box of small mementos to take home with him—his father’s medals, his mother’s favourite teacups, their wedding album—and walked away from the rest.

John had left home more than fifteen years before, a year after his father’s death, so this feeling he had of being abandoned, of being an orphan, surprised and embarrassed him a little. He’d only seen his mother three or four times a year, sometimes a week in the summer or a few days at Christmas if he could get away, her birthday once or twice. She sent gifts and cards and biscuits for holidays. He phoned her Friday evenings when he remembered, sent flowers at Easter, money when he could. But if asked, he couldn’t have said where she did her shopping, or had her hair set, or what colour her new slippers were. Most days he hardly thought about her at all.

And now he thought about her all the time. Or so it seemed. Small things reminded him—the smell of cabbage, lace curtains blowing through an open window, the theme music from _Coronation Street._ He always had the sense he was forgetting something—forgetting her—and it left him feeling vaguely guilty and unsettled.

He still hadn’t cried. There had been no time at first. And then Harry had cried enough for both of them

A month went by, and John’s pain, so sharp and startling at first, retreated. It was as if his body had finally made space for it, had shifted things to accommodate it. It seemed that the worst of his grief had passed.

Until one Friday night two weeks later, between the end of his shift at the clinic and dinner with Sherlock, when he sat in his chair, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, the phone in the other, and began to dial the number he’d been calling for more than fifteen years.

Sherlock found him on the couch two hours later, the phone still cradled in his lap, and sat by him while he wept the tears he’d been hoarding for weeks.

When the worst of it was over, Sherlock stood and held out one hand. “Come to bed, John” was all he said.

//

John let his head fall back on the pillows, closing his eyes, his hips jerking upwards as Sherlock’s mouth closed around his cock. He came too fast that night, in a sudden burst of heat and grief, embarrassment rising up with the pleasure. He’d been willing to reciprocate, but Sherlock had shook his head, sat up, drained the last inch of whiskey from the glass John had carried to the bedroom with him, and walked barefoot to the bathroom. John lay on his back and watched the lights of passing cars dance across the ceiling like ghosts.

Sherlock came back a few minutes later and stretched out beside him, his hand closing around John’s.

“I wish I’d told her. About us.” John rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “I wanted to, you know, I just never knew how to start. My family was never good with . . . talking. And then she got sick . . .”

“She knew.”

John pulled his hand free and turned to face him. “You’re only guessing.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I never guess. She knew.”

There were things that John thought he knew for sure, things he’d always counted on being true. He knew that that his sister was a drunk, that tea and toast could cure most anything, that he loved Sherlock beyond all reason. And that his mother didn’t know about them.

Sherlock rested his hand on John’s arm. “She asked me. When she visited last spring and you were working and I’d run out of excuses why I couldn’t take her to lunch. She asked, John.” He paused. “So I told her the truth. I saw no reason not to. I assumed she told you.”

“No.” Regret burned behind John’s eyes. “She never said anything.” He cleared his throat to keep his voice from breaking. “I miss her. I don’t miss worrying about her and I don’t miss feeling guilty. I miss talking to her.”

“It will get better.” Sherlock’s voice was shaky too. “I have read extensively on the subject over the past several weeks.”

John nodded slowly and reached for Sherlock’s hand in the dark.

Sherlock pulled him close and together they waited for the first light of morning.

//

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Christina Rosetti poem Sing-Song
> 
> What are heavy? sea-sand and sorrow.  
> What are brief? today and tomorrow.  
> What are frail? spring blossoms and youth.  
> What are deep? the ocean and truth.”


End file.
